


Faded Music

by britishparty



Category: The Yogscast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:40:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3593250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britishparty/pseuds/britishparty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lying is quite surprised by what they find in their well - and can't quite tell if it's real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faded Music

They hiss and scrabble against the walls, desperate to escape. The fearful eyes and shaking hands fade from sight as the only light left is swallowed.  
This is their prison, the well of their despair. They have been sealed here on the suspicion of being a witch - to which they proudly admitted. Stupid fools for thinking that witchcraft is all evil. After all, that fire hadn’t killed them, had it?  
They grin to themselves, wide and hungry. When was the last time they had eaten? Food may not have been necessary, but they deserved to indulge in the luxuries of life. A long life and many battles had taught them that much.  
How long will they be down here? They settle on the stone ground, content - for now - to run their fingers through their long hair and straighten their clothes.  
It is not long though, before they get to their feet and prowl the space they are allowed, running dirty hands across rough stone walls and wading through not-quite-knee-deep puddles. They set themselves the task of visualizing their entire prison through touch alone; there is too little light to see, and they are not sure they’d want to. The dark is comforting in its whole unbrokenness, wrapping around them and telling them to sleep.  
But they refuse to sleep, terrified of losing time, terrified of never waking up. They mark what they think are days; they’re not quite sure anymore.  
After they have lost track of the notches in the wall, long afterward, they begin to hear something. It is hauntingly familiar, eerily close, but it is wrong. It shouldn’t be here of all places. It is a sweet tune, played delicately on what they think is a harp.  
They reach out for the stone wall that should be just a few inches to their left, but their hand meets empty air. Their entire world is thrown out of proportion with just that tiny detail, with the knowledge that they are not where they were.  
Alone in the darkness, all they can do is stumble towards the sound. It is something, even if it is not dripping water or scratching rock.  
Guided by only their ears, they get close enough hear the tiny plink of trimmed nails when they catch on the harp’s strings, hear the soft thump of a foot keeping time. These are foreign sounds to them, ancient sounds they didn’t think they’d hear again.  
“…llo?” Their voice is raspy, unused over the past eternity. Talking to themself was a strange concept.  
They clear their throat and try again. “Hello?” It is a little louder, but they doubt they were heard over the music.  
There is a lull in the song, as if the harpist is debating on what to play next.  
“Please,” they cry into the silence. “Can you hear me?  
They know they sound broken, lost, but they are too curious to care. If this is a way out - if this is anything but their imagination - they have reason enough to be hopeful.  
There is the scrape of wood against the floor, a hollow thunk as the instrument is moved aside. The harpist gets to their feet slowly.  
“Who’s there?” The voice is a man’s, a grown man’s, but they are too happy to be surprised.  
“Me,” they call. “Please, can you hear me?” Their voice cracks on the last word, the noise falling from their mouth.  
“Yes,” the man says, “but where did you come from? Who are you?”  
“I am Lying,” they say, and the name gives them strength. “I am Lying!” They cry again, delightedly.  
“Lying?” The man’s tone is confused, but he draws closer, nearing them in the darkness.  
Before they are ready, a door opens, and light spills into the hallway where they have ended up. They hiss at it, but they stagger forward a few more steps, towards him.  
“Are you alright?” The man is there, supporting them. His hands are wide and gentle and so unfamiliar that Lying flinches when he touches them.  
“Dark,” they say, trying to find their voice, “I’m used to the dark.”  
The man’s presence disappears, and the light dims. It is easier to see now, easier to see him when he returns.  
He is tall and broad, with fluffy hair and a wide jaw. Arms like tree trunks and roughened hands make it seem impossible that he was the harpist, but they can sense no one else here.  
“Where did you come from?” He glances curiously into the darkness behind them, but the brick floors fade into nothingness where the light stops.  
“From my well,” Lying tells him. They allow themself to be guided through the doorway and into the small room, though they doubt they are strong enough to resist anyway.  
“Did you fall in?” The man sits on the stool in front of his harp, gesturing for Lying to sit on the only other chair in the room.  
They can’t stop the beginnings of the snarl that pulls at their lips. “Not likely,” they say, not noticing how their venomous voice surprises the man.  
“How long were you in there?” He is cautious now, squaring his shoulders and looking at them through narrow eyes.  
“Days,” they say, hostility still prickling in their voice. “Weeks, months, years, I’m not sure. There was no light and all I could hear was the dripping water.”  
“How did you get here?” Lying suspects this is the only question the man really cares about, but they are courteous enough to not say so.  
“I heard you.” They nod at the harp. “Playing. And then my well was gone. And you were… here.” They gesture vaguely around the room, still not sure of its existence.  
“What was I playing?” The man spins on the stool, pulls his harp against his shoulder, and sets his hands above the strings. “This?”  
Before Lying can say they don’t want a demonstration, that they don’t care for music, he begins to play, and the argument dies on their tongue.  
He’s playing a different song, a brighter one - a jig, if Lying had to name it. It is old but beautiful, and they find they have the urge to leap up and join in, to dance and hum along. The man’s hands fly across the strings, and Lying is captivated by the movement and the music, by the simple magic he can feel in the air.  
The jig ends too suddenly, and both Lying and the man are breathless from the feeling of it.  
“Not that one,” Lying says hurriedly. “A sweet tune. Simple.”  
The man smiles, and Lying realizes he knew that he had played the wrong song, played that on purpose. Instead of replying, he begins again, with a different song - the right one.  
It is sad, now, heard like this, but again Lying loves it. The music is nothing special, but they have been alone so long that it is beautiful beyond measure.  
When the song fades into silence, Lying finally asks, “What is your name?”  
“Not your business,” the man says. “Why does it matter?”  
“You seem familiar.” They look at him for a moment, thinking. “Maybe you are someone I will know.”  
He raises one eyebrow. “And then how are we meeting now?”  
They shrug. “The dimensions are blending together. Maybe I slipped through one, and came back out in the wrong time.”  
“How do you get back?” He’s careful with this question.  
“It’ll notice its error soon, and pull me back. Until then, I might as well stretch my legs and see the stars.” They rise leisurely, stretching their arms in a way that makes their joints crack and pop. “Where’s the way out?”  
“The way you came in.” The man is not looking at the door, still watching him with narrowed eyes.  
When Lying flings the door open, a normal stone hallway looks back at them. It is lit by a flickering lantern, and they can see stairs leading downward at the far end.  
“Where are you going?” He half-rises as they begin to walk away.  
“To see the stars,” they say. “Escort me if you wish, but you won’t stop me.”  
The man lets them go without argument. Lying can hear him strike up another jig, and they quicken their pace.  
Reaching the roof of the stone tower is almost crippling; they’re not used to so much physical exertion. It is worth it though, to see the stars.  
The night sky is more beautiful than they remembered. The open air is a blessing, and they inhale deeply, wanting more, more.  
It’s then that they recognize this feeling: greed.  
They want it so badly, want it and can’t have it. They had no greed in the well, when all there was to have was wet clothes and filthy hair. But now, now that there is beauty and life and freedom, they want so badly it hurts.  
Briefly, when the walls of reality begin to press down on them, they wonder who the man was. He played beautifully, with a grace Lying had never seen before.  
They wonder who he will be. The man with all the grace and finesse of a kingly stag; the man who tames the music of the storm.  
And then they hear it.  
It is like a leftover wisp from a nightmare. At first, distant, almost imaginary, but irrefutably there.  
A steady drip-drip-drip. Dank, dripping water and the scent of stone and decay.  
They feel the world shrink around them, darkness swallowing all but the sky overhead and the stone underfoot. They breathe in one last time, trying to imprint this scent into their mind.  
Lying shuts their eyes, and all too suddenly musty, stale air swirls around them. They hold their breath until they are forced to exhale and swallow the heavy air around them.  
Opening their eyes does nothing. It is dark, darker than the moonless sky.  
This is their home, the well of their patience. They will sit and wait for the man to find them.  
He will find them, and he will fear them, and they will consume him.  
Lying smiles, a little too wide and much too hungry. They can wait.  
He will make a nice meal.


End file.
